Rikuo grew up between two cultures: the Japanese rigour of his father and the gentle warmth of his mother. In Paris, everyone eventually knew "little Amada," a boy who touched the ball as if he were having a conversation with it.
At 12, his local club was already relying on him.
At 14, he played with the older age groups.
At 16, he competed in the national U17 and U19 championships.
At 17, he wore the France U17 jersey.
A prodigy.
A phenomenon.
A future great.
But behind every goal, every dribble, every victory… Rikuo looked for two faces in the stands: his parents'.
Yet gradually, Alicia stopped coming. The illness weakened her, drained her, silently eating her away.
Until the day she didn't wake up.
Rikuo's world collapsed with her.
Everything that had driven him to play vanished into a brutal void.
That night, he sat motionless, his blue jersey clutched to his chest.
"If you're not here to watch… then it's pointless," he whispered.
The next day, he told his father he was quitting football for good.
Takeshi didn't insist. He had lost his wife. He refused to break his son.
A few months later, they left Paris to return to Japan, to Tokyo.
A new country. A new language in daily life. A new life.
Or perhaps… just a way to escape the memories.